


They Say I'm a Bad Man and They're Right

by halfhardtorock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attraction, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Incestuous Undertones, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, cis!girl Sam, dean fucking every girl but Sam, physically threatening Dean, sex shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfhardtorock/pseuds/halfhardtorock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he came home from the service, she was pleased. More than anything, she was pleased that she might get to know him. She cleaned up her little apartment until it was neat and took the day off from the restaurant. </p><p>She bought a summer dress, looked at herself in the mirror a few times before she went out to the airport.</p><p>She saw him standing with his green duffle, waiting. Head shaved close. Face stern. He was bigger than she expected, taller. Taller than her, even. </p><p>She had to pause and look at how her brother had somehow grown up while he was away.</p><p>It was silly, but it made her a little upset inside. Because how was she suddenly supposed to share her little apartment with this...man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Say I'm a Bad Man and They're Right

**Author's Note:**

> co-written with meyerlemon

 

 

She finished the movie around one and turned off the tv. Sat in the dark, toes scrunching in the shag rug. The living room faced the moonless field, but she could see the lights of cars on the street, lighting up Dean’s messy bedroom floor, one of his big boots. A shell casing. What was either a wadded up condom wrapper or a candy wrapper. She heard the cars before the lights, and sometimes they made her freeze up for a moment, listening for the throttle of his car. It had a distinct sound, a _chunk-chunk-chunk_ , and it always whined when he slowed to pull into their gravel driveway. 

Whenever she heard it, her hands got clumsy. She’d drop things, things would slip out of her fingers and he’d come in from the cold, sharp knot in his brow like he was irritated even before he found her frantically wiping splattered spaghetti sauce off the floor and cupboards.

He’d look at her and pick up the fallen wooden spoon. He’d drop it in the sink and lean against the counter, watching her. 

“You’ve got those slippery fingers, Sam,” he’d say with a sigh that wasn’t annoyed. The near-affection in his voice was always the worst. Made her blush hard. Twitch a little, a nerve in her arm sort of pitching a fit until she tightened it up defensively. 

He usually came home for dinner, but tonight none of the cars that passed had the right sound. None of them turned in the driveway. So she made him a plate and stuck it first in the oven. Then after ten, she took it out again and put it carefully in the fridge.

Then she stayed up watching old movies under her big quilt.

The later it got, the more obvious it was. What he was doing...

She unrolled her quilt after the movie. Tucked it neatly into the couch to make her bed up. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and looked in the mirror. Held up her hair and looked again, at her lips. At her eyebrows. Critical.

She changed into a tee shirt that Dean sometimes wore too, that had been their father’s. A grey shirt with a stretched out pocket at the breast. She slipped off her pants and took off her bra. Stood in the hallway outside the bathroom. 

She was slowly taking off her earrings when she heard the throttle. The shrill whine as the chevy pulled into the driveway. 

Her insides went hot, nervous flutter in her stomach. She felt like this when she was scared. When Dean came in from a hunt with his face tight, his shirt torn and blurting red. When Dean dropped a hand on her knee and FISTED, moaning, when she peeled the cloth back. 

She felt like this when he came out of the shower with a towel low on his hips, standing over her while she tried to watch tv.

She scrambled into her couch bed and pulled the covers over her head, shivering, a moment before he shoved the front door open.

It clattered into the wall and she could hear him whispering “Come on, come on-”

There were two sets of feet. Dean’s heavy gait, someone else’s-

The sharp clap of loose heels across the kitchen tile.

Sam seized up. 

He brought a _girl_ home.

They came into the dark living room and she heard Dean grunt. Then the girl must have hit the coffee table, because there was a soft, feminine _oomph_ , the sound of something thumping into wood and then a high little giggle. Only for a moment before she heard her brother hiss out “Shut the fuck up. You’ll wake up my sister.”

He was standing right over Sam. She bit her lip, closed her eyes tight. Just in case-

She could smell the smoke on them.

The girl giggled again, low and mockingly, and then she _yelped_. When they passed, Sam opened an eye cautiously and watched Dean *lift* the girl to his bedroom, her feet dragging helplessly behind her. Her shoes caught on the rug and slipped off, lost. She was clenching at his arm, his tight shoulder. He brought her swiftly into his bedroom and Sam saw the girl’s shocked, open mouth in the passing car lights before he kicked the door shut.

Sam lay still, staring at his closed door. 

 

 

When he came home from the service, she was pleased. More than anything, she was pleased that she might get to know him. She cleaned up her little apartment until it was neat and took the day off from the restaurant. 

She bought a summer dress, looked at herself in the mirror a few times before she went out to the airport.

She saw him standing with his green duffle, waiting. Head shaved close. Face stern. He was bigger than she expected, taller. Taller than her, even. 

She had to pause and look at how her brother had somehow grown up while he was away.

It was silly, but it made her a little upset inside. Because how was she suddenly supposed to share her little apartment with this... _man_?

She approached him in a flurry, smiling. Pushing her hair off her shoulder and touching his arm fondly, awkwardly. 

She had said something stupid, something that made her blush later.

“Oh, Dean. You’re a lot taller. And um. I guess I just remembered you as...younger-”

The look on his face when he saw her was openly incredulous. Wide-eyed for just a bare moment. 

She remembered that later, the way he had looked at her like she was something so unexpected he couldn’t hide his shock for a second.

She kept that to herself, like a hard won little treasure.

And then his mouth tightened, thin, and his eyes went hard. Sharp. 

And he said “What are you wearing, for _Christ_.”

It had made her face flush up badly. She knew how she looked when she was embarrassed, red like blood, all the way down her front. 

“Oh, I-”

He just took her arm in his hand and lifted his duffle with the other. He was strong. His grip left her fingers numb as he guided her all the way out of the airport.

“Are you...glad to be home?” she asked awkwardly as he got into the car with her. 

He stared doggedly, frowningly out the window. He looked uncomfortable, riding as a passenger. 

“Home?” he said, low. Annoyed. “Didn’t have a home, Sam. This is just where we left you off for 14 years. Remember?”

She felt herself stiffen up. She had to breathe tight and short to stop herself from crying all the sudden. 

“You’re not still living at the Pastor’s, are you?” he asked. 

“No,” she said, upset.

He sat back. She looked over at him and watched his eyes drift shut. 

Even as he slept, his mouth was tight and irritated.

 

 

She had been foolish. She thought they would build a little life. Maybe he’d get a degree at the community college while she waited tables. And he’d come home and they’d have ice cream cones on the porch and laugh.

When she thought about it later, she couldn’t help but feel ashamed that she’d imagined having her older brother back, the one she’d known for two years before he’d left. The scrawny, serious kid with the pale hair and a smirking, fond way of teasing her.

When she let him into the apartment, he dropped his duffle in the middle of the kitchen and walked past her. Big, he was big. Muscular shoulders she stared at, surprised, as he opened her fridge and peered in.

He sighed. “No beer?” 

She cleared her throat. “Oh, um. I have a notepad for groceries. If you want to add anything-”

He _looked_ at her for a long moment and then walked out of the room. 

She stood blushing in her own kitchen. She went to take up his duffle and move it, but it was heavy. She could barely budge it along. So she just left it there and went to the fridge.

With careful lettering, she wrote BEER on her notepad. 

She turned the corner in her living room “What kind of beer?” and he was in the bathroom-

She stared at him, struck, as he peed. He was leaning over her toilet, a palm to the wall. She stared and he saw her out of the corner of his eye, swore low and reached for the door. It slapped shut in her face.

“Sorry!” she said, lamely.

She sat down on the couch and rubbed at her face. 

 

 

At the restaurant, her friends thought he was cute. 

She looked at him critically and couldn’t really _see_ cute. 

Her brother was... First, he was very masculine. She didn’t really know how to describe it. But when the other girls started calling him her “hot older brother”, she didn’t understand it. It wasn’t that easy as him being attractive or handsome or-

There was something very cruel and other-ly about her brother, something that made her tense inside. Made her upset when he came home silent and stomped around her kitchen.

He came into the restaurant every Friday afternoon for a slice of pie. He came in in his work clothes, paint-splattered flannel that was tight on his shoulders. Loose jeans. His hair was always wet with sweat, his face smudged. He’d smell like turpentine and grease but the other waitresses didn’t seem bothered by that. They fluttered around, wanting to be the one to bring him his pie.

And after a month, Sam started to notice-

One by one, he took them apart. It wasn’t hard. He just came in and _grinned_ at them.

Sam watched it all, wide-eyed.

Dean, flirting, was something wholly different.

He made eyes back at the waitresses as they poured his coffee. Leaned in and moved their hair for them, off their bare shoulders. Smiled and thumbed his mouth thoughtfully, told them their pie was “damn fine,”, and even though they didn’t make it themselves, they BLUSHED and thanked him ridiculously.

She didn’t know that he was slowly sleeping with all of them until one afternoon she came in and Margot and Aisha were pulling each other’s hair in the back room and screeching.

She tried to reason with them and then she heard Margot say “Dean was at my fucking house this weekend, eating _me_ out, so stop _fucking_ putting your claws all over him when he comes in!”

Sam was shocked silent then and just watched them scuffle awkwardly in the ugly neon light.  
She thought about him...eating Margot out. She couldn’t help it. She walked numbly to the front of the restaurant to put the soup on, thinking about it. Margot with her red hair all sweaty in her face. Her thick thighs all shaky.

Her brother-

She had to shake it off. It was gross. It was gross to think of Dean.

He came home that night, boots wet with snow. When she turned to look at him, saw the high red in his cheeks, the nape of his neck, she couldn’t help-

-he probably looked at Margot cruelly, was cruel with his hands. His fingers. He probably used his _teeth_ -

“What’re you making?” he asked, low-voiced in the bright kitchen.

He stared at him. Mouth open.

He paused, stared back. 

“Sam-” he said.

She jerked back to her work, glared into her pot. “Beef stroganoff,” she said, voice a little weird, high.

He made a soft, humming noise. The closest sound he made to pleased. The sound-

-she frowned hard, thinking how he probably sounded like that-

“Gonna take a shower. Don’t eat without me,” he said, leaving the room.

She turned, sighed at the wet boot-prints he left all over the place. At the way he ordered her around. 

At the way she was so fucked up...

 

 

She would never tell him, but one of the things she loved more than anything was watching him eat. 

He ate silently and largely, head tipped low, enjoying her food with silent, low sounds.

After dinner, they sat together on the couch. Watched a movie. 

Dean drank a beer and she fiddled with her hair, sometimes read a book. He sat with his legs loose, spread. Taking up a lot of space so she was pressed against the couch arm. Sometimes they chuckled at the same thing on tv, and he’d look over at her and she’d giggle. 

It was weird, those times. He almost looked happy.

She didn’t know what was wrong with him. Her friend Richard at the bookstore seemed to think her brother was suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome. Richard looked at her pityingly, offered her a 24-hour hotline he’d read about in the paper, for veteran’s or their families to call. For help. 

She thought Rich was pretty friendly, offering moral support. And then one day he was telling her about the visiting poets series at the community college and he invited her out to dinner.

It all happened so fast, she said yes before she meant to. She left the bookstore feeling a little odd, awkward. Irritated with herself.

Richard was nice, but she just wasn’t attracted to him. He was sort of _emotional_ , sensitive. He had perfect fingernails. Sometimes she stared at them, uncomfortable. How could they be so perfect?

Her father and Dean had always had craggy, rough fingernails. Bitten close to the skin. 

And Rich wore these black, plastic framed little spectacles. She didn’t know what they were for, for reading or what, but they looked so...

They just annoyed her.

She didn’t realize how much he annoyed her until she was suddenly going to go out with him for dinner.

 

 

She got dressed that night, put on a necklace. Did her makeup in the bedroom mirror. Brushed out her hair.

In the kitchen, Dean looked up from where he was taking his boots off. She blushed but ignored him, put on her shoes. 

He was frozen, watching her.

“I can’t make dinner for you tonight,” she said calmly.

She strapped on her sandals and looked up at him. 

His face was blotchy. She was surprised. She looked at the tight clench in his jaw. 

“I have a date-” she said, and he stood up suddenly.

She stared up at him. 

He loomed there for a moment, glaring. And then stepped off. 

“The guy from the bookstore,” he said knowingly. She breathed in.

“How did you know that?”

He shrugged, smirked. It looked ugly on him. “Just givin’ it up easy, huh?” he said.

She felt hot. “What?”

“What is that? You’re wearing that?” 

She stood up, looked at herself. She couldn’t think. She was too embarrassed to think.

“Yes, why?-”

“Nothing, just. If that’s the impression you want to make,” he said, rubbing at his mouth. Smiling a little. 

He shrugged and left the room.

She stood with her jacket in her hands, staring after him as he sat down on the couch with a sigh and turned on the tv.

 

 

An hour later, she came home and tossed her jacket on the floor. She grabbed a beer and joined Dean on the couch. 

He looked at her as she cracked it open and drank deeply.

And then he flipped on CHiPs, which he knew she liked better than The Outer Limits.

They sat together and drank silently, his shoulder close to hers.

After an hour, she cleared her throat and asked him if he wanted some pizza.

 

 

She stared at his closed bedroom door. 

It started off stilted, the sound of the girl gasping for breath, sharp in the quiet. The sound of her brother’s boots squeaking on the wood floor.

And then Sam heard her brother _chuckle_ and the girl cry out “Oh god!”

And it was worse from there.

She covered her head with the blanket but it was too hot. She couldn’t breathe. When she ripped it off, her hair in her eyes, she heard the bed creaking in the other room, and then these low, sorrowful sounds. So deep and terrible, she couldn’t tell if they were his or hers or-

“You like it like this? Wait until I get my cock in there. You think it’s a tight fit in this-”

Sam listened, catching her breath as the low moans grew, got shrill and scared. The way women sounded when they were running away in slasher movies. Losing their footing in the dark, tight and hysterical cries in their throats. Breathless.

It made her cold in her guts, knowing that Dean might be...that Dean might not be nice to women.

She heard her brother’s grunts then. The grumpy, deep sound of them in his chest. With each, the girl got more screechy and for a tense moment, she let loose these blood-curdling...

and then they were muffled, and she heard her brother say “Fuckin’ relax, I’m gonna...and if you wake up my sister-”

It made her bury her head again and clap her hands over her ears.

But she couldn’t not hear, and after a few moments there were cries again but this time-

“Say it-”

“Dean, please. *Please*. So hard. _Hurts_ -”

“Yes, say it-”

“Dean, Dean. Please, god. God!” and then the sound of.

She listened to the sound of this strange girl coming in her brother’s bedroom.

After that, Sam couldn’t help it. She got a hand between her legs and rubbed at herself. Her body went hot to cold, aroused and numb, shaky. She thumbed at herself and pressed a finger in and-

“Uhnn, sweet little ass. Can’t believe you let me fuck you in the ass, you little _bitch_ ,” Dean moaned out, loud and long.

And she came then, too soon. Not enough build up for it to be enjoyable. Only enough for these small tremors that made her upset, made her feel unfinished. Itchy under her skin.

She flopped down onto the couch, breathing through her nose until she realized how loud and desperate it sounded. She stopped, listened hard.

She was all wet between the legs and about to get up to go to the bathroom when her brother’s door flew open.

She was silent. 

The girl was stumbling through, dress loose on her back. Unzipped but not taken off. She tripped around searching for her shoes. Sam could see them, but the girl’s eyes weren’t adjusted.

Finally, she took them in her trembling hands and tried to get them on, hopping towards the kitchen. 

She heard them clack on the tile, heard the girl’s shuddery breath.

And then the door shook, swung open and closed.

Sam thought, surprised, that the girl was going to walk home. They were on the rural route. She was going to have to walk 3 miles in the dark-

She waited for Dean to jog through, to be a good man. For him to grab his keys off the table and go after her. 

But Dean didn’t jog through. His bedroom door stood half open and shadowy. She couldn’t see what was going on in there. She was afraid to move. 

And then the door swung wide and she held her breath.

He walked out into the hallway, an outline in the dark. 

But she could see. She could see he was naked. She barely looked, too frightened. But she could see that he was naked. She was buried under the blanket. 

And he just stood there, staring at her.

She felt herself tremor low, _low_. Inside. Heat between the legs that spread up, made her heart beat, made the hair on her arms rise.

She listened to his deep breathing.

He stood there for five minutes, just looking at her.

She lay still, hips wanting to twitch. For him, for the heat there-

He turned then, and she could see the outline of his half-hard cock. See the length and thickness and it made her want to cry. Made her upset. Why was she...looking at _this_?

He went back into his bedroom and closed his door.

 

 

The next morning, he came out in his boxers and went past her to shower. She was sitting there, rubbing her eyes. Restless. Strung out on staying awake most of the night, touching herself between the legs and feeling terrible. Feeling awkward and uncertain.

“Too loud for you last night?” he asked, passing her.

She looked up, shocked. He just went into the bathroom.

She glanced at his open bedroom door.

There was a fuchsia bra on the floor, strung long, left in the doorway.

 

 


End file.
